


Requited Unrequited

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [65]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts, Requited Unrequited Love, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-21 05:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21070013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Sherlock's drug induced investigation of an over one hundred year old case has modern day repercussions for Mycroft.





	Requited Unrequited

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts | Dirty

Mycroft Holmes, Gregory Lestrade and a few members of New Scotland Yard and Mycroft’s own security watched as an annoyed but resigned John Watson took the hand of his pregnant wife Mary as the couple walked away from the gravesite.

This was the most time Mycroft has spent around the woman since she and John got together. Mary’s surprising calm and collected reaction to the situation seemed a little odd and she was surprisingly proficient and a lot smarter than he would have given her credit for at first look. She got into the secure MI5 files; to say there was something about the nurse gave him pause was an understatement. He did not have the time to spare her much thought.

On the other hand, he fully understood John’s frustration, for it was very much like his own. Sherlock’s near overdose on the plane and his sudden tenaciousness to solve this over one hundred-year-old Ricoletti case when Jim Moriarty has his face plastered all over London was galling to say the least. The irony that both cases involve people who had shot themselves in the head, yet have seemingly returned from the dead, was not lost on any of them.

“He’s right, you know.” Mycroft told his brother.

“So, what if he’s right? He’s always right. It’s boring.” Sherlock retorted somewhat loudly in his own frustration. The Ricoletti case was the bone and he was doggedly pursing it regardless of what anyone thought.

Still, he knew Sherlock was aware of how it must have looked to John, Mary, Greg, and even him as his brother paused and looked down, for a moment.

Sherlocked looked over to him, his voice quiet and beseeching, “Will you help me?”

His brother looked across to Gregory and then to him, the unspoken _Please?_ in his voice was heard, but not needed. 

Sherlock stood with a spade in his hands ready to the dirty work of unearthing the grave on his own even if no one else would help him.

Mycroft exchanged a knowing look with Gregory.

It was going to be a waste of time. Mycroft was aware Gregory knew this as well, but it was Sherlock _asking_. He _asked_. No one, absolutely no one - not even Mummy and Dad, understood the wild genius when he was like this, only him. Thus, it was startling to realize that Gregory Lestrade understood. Gregory understood that Sherlock absolutely _needed_ to do this. If John Watson could not be there, and no one found fault with the doctor for putting his pregnant wife’s health over Sherlock’s irrationality with the Ricoletti case, then Gregory absolutely would be there for him.

Gregory Lestrade took off his trench and handed it to a Metro officer who handed the detective inspector a spade in turn after Greg rolled up his sleeves.

Mycroft shrugged and gestured to the grave, “Cherchez la femme.”

Sherlock eyes gave a grateful _Thank you_ as he raised the spade and plunged it into the earth. Greg took his spade and followed suit.

Mycroft found himself watching the pull and flex of Gregory’s body as the DI helped Sherlock dig. The way his thigh bulged the material of his trousers as he used his foot to shove the spade into the ground. How his broad shoulders pulled at the seams of his shirt. The shift of Greg’s very nice gluteus maximus as he bent and stood to shovel.

Hours later, after night had fallen, after portable lights have been set up to illuminate the area, after the grave was finally opened and its inevitable disappointment that it would not be as Sherlock had hoped was revealed, the men stood by the grave.

Gregory groaned as he rolled a stiff shoulder. Mycroft’s eyes drawn to the Gregory’s back, his shirt damp from his exertions gave hint to the strong musculature underneath as Gregory stretched. Mycroft noted the strong forearms as he removed the thick gloves he had worn to help Sherlock dig. His dress shirt, well most of the man was now dirty, but it showed the most on the formerly clean shirt.

It was not as if Mycroft had not noticed the middle-aged man was fit. He knew. A lovely video of a sweaty Lestrade playing football for New Scotland Yard the previous week was a very secret treasure on Mycroft’s very secured mobile that Mycroft has watched daily since he downloaded it. The small video, even with its glorious final seconds of a very ferocious looking Gregory when he leaped over an opponent and scored the winning point, was nothing compared watching how his body moved up close and personal. It had taken much of Mycroft’s concentration to keep his torched concentrated on where they were digging and not let it roam Lestrade’s body as his eyes had.

Mycroft was especially grateful that his brother was so preoccupied that he had not noticed how he furtively took a deep inhale of Lestrade’s earthy scent as he gave the cop a hand when Greg and Sherlock had scrambled out of the grave before they opened the coffin. Nor had Sherlock noticed that Mycroft had to button his coat and not because the temperature had dropped a few degrees.

> It felt like a daydream as Sherlock donned his great coat over his dirty clothes without thought and stalked away from the site. Mycroft knew his brother had multiples of the Belstaff. No one would notice that he wore a duplicate all together while this one was in the cleaners.
> 
> Gregory was not that fortunate and had carefully removed his dress shirt and used it to beat some of the more egregious dirt from his trousers. The short sleeve undershirt showed more of his delicious torso.
> 
> When Gregory ran the back of his hand across his forehead. It left a path of clean that made Mycroft take his handkerchief out and wiped the man’s surprised face. Mycroft froze in the realization of what he had done.
> 
> “What the hell are you doing?” Gregory’s hand grabbed his wrist harshly and stopped him.

Mycroft blinked rapidly as the daydream dissipated as suddenly as it had begun. His hands were very much still in his coat pocket. Greg still stood in his rolled-up shirt sleeves.

“Bad luck, Sherlock.” Gregory said to Sherlock sympathetically. “Maybe they got rid of the body in another way.”

“More than likely.” Mycroft stood beside Sherlock at the front of Ricoletti’s grave. He ensured his face was stoic as always as he spoke. “At any rate, it was a very long time ago. We do have slightly more pressing matters to hand, little brother. Moriarty, back from the dead?”

There was nothing else to be done, all three men knew it. Sherlock hung his head in confusion and disappointment where he stood at the front of the grave. The dark curly head slowly nodded as he threw down the spade in defeat.

> When the spade hit the dirt; a harsh female voice began to whisper in sing-song from the grave.
> 
> “Do not forget me.”
> 
> Sherlock, Greg and Mycroft turned and looked towards the coffin. Mycroft grateful they had heard the voice as well and it was not just him.
> 
> The voice whispered in song again, a little louder, “Do not forget me.”
> 
> With trepidation all three men turned as Mycroft pulled out his torch and shined it into the open coffin behind Sherlock. Greg’s jaw dropped, and Mycroft stared in stunned disbelief as the corpse’s skeletal right hand began to slowly lift from where it rested on the bod. The sight of corpse’s head as it began to lift, and the sound of creaking bones had everyone frozen in shock. Because the first movements were so slow no one was prepared when a furious female scream was heard, and the skeleton suddenly leaped out of the coffin plunging itself and Gregory into the empty grave…

<><><> 

Mycroft eyes popped open and he sprang up in his seat. The sounds of Central London reoriented him as he barely suppressed the scream that wanted to rip from his throat.

Sherlock had turned in his report a week after his release from exile. Sherlock almost never turns in his reports in a timely fashion. To all other eyes that read the report it was a detailed account of his drug of his mind palace’s recreation of the Ricoletti case along with his deductions regarding Moriarty’s sudden appearance across London. Sherlock had spent a week in solitary confinement before his release. Mycroft realized he should have known better. Sherlock’s incredibly detailed description of Lestrade’s form bordered on lurid and have haunted Mycroft’s dreams day, and night, since. Having it written as a drug induced mind palace fancy made it much worse. The report had made full mockery of Mycroft’s oft quoted _caring is not an advantage, Sherlock_ mantra. Without saying the words his brother had made it known that he was quite aware of Mycroft’s love of the detective inspector. His unrequited love.

He took a shuddering breath as the image of Lestrade falling into the dark depths of the grave floated before him and dissipated.

“Mycroft?” a soft voice spoke.

Mycroft’s head spun to Lestrade sitting on his side of the car.

Mycroft had not forgotten that Gregory was there, he was dropping Lestrade off at NSY after one of their dinners, but he had fallen asleep from the exhaustion of three busy days with little sleep.

“You okay? Anything I can get for you?” Gregory looked to Mycroft, his warm brown eyes full of with concern.

Not trusting himself to speak, Mycroft shook his head and continued to look out at London.

He sensed that Gregory had started to reach out, to touch him, but stopped himself.

Mycroft did not want to admit to himself how much just wanted that touch. Mycroft wanted the world to stop for a moment. Mycroft wanted solace. Mycroft wanted…

Mycroft turned to face Gregory, “There is something…”

“Yes…?” Gregory turned to him, the light of a streetlamp flashed across the features of his open face. For a moment Mycroft saw Lestrade’s expressions, clearly It was gone before the next stream of streetlight could reach it, but Mycroft knew what he saw.

Longing. Desire. Hope. For the first time Mycroft realized his feelings for Lestrade were indeed reciprocated.

“You...”

Gregory silently gasped as Mycroft dropped his mask and let him see into him. He held out his hand and watched as comprehension, disbelief, and hope flashed across Gregory’s rugged face before he slipped his hands into Mycroft’s and intertwined their fingers.

They look at their hands that rest on the seat between them and then to each other.

The promise of a future together, they lean toward each other and kiss at last.


End file.
